


One Of Those

by asaprockme



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Death, Did I Mention Angst?, Dystopian, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asaprockme/pseuds/asaprockme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We live a life where life is the equivalent to death, and if that's not fucked up then I don't wanna know what is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Of Those

**Author's Note:**

> I don't typically write these kinds of stories, so hopefully I did alright. this story has been sitting unfinished for months and months, and I'm honestly so happy that I've finally been able to finish it after so long. I'm very proud with how it came out and I just hope that that reflects in the words that I've written. 
> 
> zombies are mentioned as 'them' or 'they' just to clear that up before you get started. Please enjoy, your feedback is always welcome! :)

The city is dark and tainted. The skies are painted a hideous grey, a color that makes you feel worthless, like you've got nothing left. The streets are empty and filled with nothingness―gloom and disgust fill the void in his aching heart, but it's not a good feeling. He feels dirty, feels grimy and wrong, can feel the thick, invisible layers of defeat and hate and _death_ surrounding his dirt covered skin. He's pretty sure he reeks of an awfully foul smell, but it's not like it matters anyway.

Does anything matter anymore?

He should just give up. He should let it all go and let the lonely world around him eat him up, because isn't that all that's left anyway? A forbidden soul, a lost being that's somehow still here even though he doesn't exactly want to be. It's hurt and it's pain and it's physical, emotional destruction, but it's life now and it's the only road he knows. He continues to walk it.

Nothing scares him anymore; he's an empty waste of space, a tragic ending to a happily never after. It's a beautiful disaster, but it's hideous and it's filled with poison and it's killing him slowly, but he doesn't mind. Maybe he's gone mad (he's pretty sure he has), maybe he's halfway to the finish line of losing his mind, or maybe it's already ran away from him never to come back again.

He doesn't think straight anymore, doesn't breathe clearly like he used to―it hurts.

It's pain and it's not the kind that's worthwhile, not the kind you feel like you can withstand because there's more to it in the end, because there's something waiting for you when it's finished.

What's he got to motivate him to make it through? Nothing.

It's an eerie darkness, a room full of pitch blackness, like a blind man on a regular day. It's the end―it's life.

And he knows life when he sees it. Because life is a room full of bursting, loud neon colors, life is the smell before the rain, life is the trees in the middle of a bright forest, their healthy, green leaves rustling through gusts of wind―that's life. He knows life in and out, forward and backwards, side to side, like the back of his own hand. He knows life itself, in the flesh, because he's taken a few of them in a way, and he can never take the sight of that back.

Can still feel the black blood dripping down his forearm, can taste the stench on the tip of his tongue like it's his favorite meal. He can still feel that twist of a knife in his hand, being shoved through decayed hearts and heads and already dead flesh. Can feel the hasty grabs of corpses on his body, and it's disgust; it's hate, it's dirt, it's grime, but it's not life anymore.

Life isn't dreadful grunting, wheezing, and moans. Life isn't fallen limbs that barely hang on, life isn't blood and guts and horror, life isn't this. He's never pictured life like this.

And he walks a lonely road; there's mud in his hair, blood on his skin, filth on the surface of his teeth. There's a fire burning out in his heart, and there's a heavy sinking feeling deep down in his core. And he walks. And he holds his gun tight. And he cries, but he doesn't dry those tears. And they fade into the grittiness on his face, mix with the blood and the sweat, and now there's tears just like they say.

He walks. He hurts. But he doesn't live.

This isn't what life is anymore.

***

Maybe he should end it all. Maybe he should take that beloved gun of his, load it up, and take one to the head. What's the point of living? What's the point of breathing on your own when you have no one to share that air with? What's the point if everyone he knew and everything he remembers and anyone he's ever loved are all gone?

He could do it. He could end his life in a millisecond, without a single doubt, and that would be it. Maybe he'll be peaceful, then. Maybe he'll finally feel like something is right in his life.

But he can't. He won't. He's scared.

It hurts.

There's a gash on his right leg that doesn't seem like it's going to heal anytime soon. It stings―mentally, physically, emotionally. He feels drained, useless, and bored, but he won't do it. He's too afraid. So he unwraps the dirty bandages from his injured limb with a loud hiss, eyes squeezing shut. In a normal world, this would be worse. The smell would make him sick to his stomach, but he's used to it by now. The sight would knock him out, but he's seen worse. The pain would be unbearable, but this pain is nothing compared to what he's been through so far.

This―this measly cut on his calf―it's nothing. It's nothing compared to the madness around him. It's so crazy that he can't even explain it; there aren't enough words in the English dictionary to help him out. Only he knows how he feels―he wishes he had someone to share his thoughts with.

He wraps his leg in a fresh, new bandage from his pack. It's now just a numbing sting.

There's an empty, abandoned shed nearby that he goes to check out quickly. When he sees that the coast is clear, he hides himself away in it to keep himself camouflaged. This is what the world has come to.

He tries to relax, rests his head against the cool tin of the shed, closing his eyes. He wishes it were as peaceful as it sounds, but all he can see are the squirts of blood splattering on his face and the disturbing hisses and hanging of limbs. It's painful, a vision of pure distraught, but this is the only kind of memory his brain holds onto now. It's too late to go back.

And as he sits and wonders where exactly life went wrong and why, why the fucking world had to go to complete shit, he almost completely forgets about his inner monologue when it's interrupted by a crunching sound. He freezes in place, shocked and still, but completely and highly alert. His finger dances over the trigger in his hand, breath catching up with his emotions, his body jittering at the possibility of what could be happening right now.

He's used to it, he definitely should be by now, but that doesn't mean he doesn't freak out still. And he hears another crunch, slow and steady, easy like whatever it is out there doesn't want to get caught. If it was one of _those_ he'd have heard it by now, but he still has to be on high alert to make sure. He tries to control the breaths that escape from between chapped, bruised lips so no one will hear that he's here.

The air is terribly silent for a moment, still, but it all feels a bit too uneasy for his liking. It's like he's waiting for the worst to happen, expecting it, but the worst never comes. The crunching noise has stopped by now, but he feels as though what's supposed to come will happen soon enough. He holds in his breath, tightens the gun in his hand, and he's ready. He's prepared for whatever is supposed to happen when it does.

There's that crunching sound again, only this time it's a lot closer than it previously was. His heart beats excessively in his chest, like beating on a drum, and his stomach feels queasy like it always does the moment before the chaos begins. He should be used to it, but he's not sure if it'll ever fully settle in, if it'll ever register in his fucked up, distraught mind that this is his life. The life he never knew could ever exist until it happened. Until this is what his life became.

The crunching stops. The area feels tense, but it's nothing he's never experienced before.

The shed's door creaks open slowly, dramatically, and if the world wasn't so fucked up, if _he_ wasn't so fucked up in the head, he'd probably laugh, but the world is fucked up and he's not even sure if he's capable of laughter anymore so he doesn't. He leans forward in preparation to attack if he needs to, fingers trembling against his chest.

The suspense is a pain, like it's been purposely created solely to taunt and tease and mock him, and it puts him on edge. He's not in the mood to kill, not in the mood to defend himself, to fight for his life―he's sick of it. He's sick of this tragic world he lives in, sick of darkness and death and antagonizing feelings. He wants it to end, but he knows he can't. He's afraid of the life that doesn't exist anymore.

The door flies open then, the dull light from outside pooling in and painting the darkness around him just enough so he doesn't have to squint to see correctly anymore. He scurries to hide himself, heels digging into the dusty ground he sits on, but it's too late.

"Who's there?" A voice calls out, strong and sturdy, structured and rough, sort of how it feels outside. But it reels him in; his breathing is unsteady, and choppy like a harsh wind, but he knows he's okay for now. He'll live to see another day, he hopes―he thinks he hopes. He shouldn't want the life he longs for, clings onto like it's the rope keeping him from falling.

He should fall, but he's terrified of the landing.

He lets out a shaky breath, rolling over until he's stood upright. It's still dark inside of the shed he hides himself away in, but he can make out the silhouette of another human being―a sight he never thought he'd see again. At least he's not the only one.

It makes him happy in a way. Relieved and giddy and sane, like a breath of fresh air. He doesn't even remember what happiness is anymore; he doesn't remember what it feels like inside or out. Does it make his bones feel like they're on fire? Like flames licking his skin and setting him ablaze? Does it feel like the first snowfall of the year, white and fluffy and cold but electric and bright like excitement and delight? He doesn't remember, the only thing he knows is to be numb. It's the only thing he's good at.

The figure comes closer, then, and although it's still a bit too dim to make out his features, he can see him better than he had before. Can make out the dirty blond hair that covers his head, that lights up like the sunlight he hasn't seen in so long when the light from outside bleeds through the strands. He can make out a lanky outline, the gun ready and loaded that's attached to his hip, can make out the prepared stance, like whoever stands in front of him is ready for whatever is to come, like he's been ready for ages.

They continue to take timid yet still very cautious steps towards each other, their guns still held out in front of them like this scene has been rehearsed numerous times beforehand and this is the big debut. His heart still stutters in his chest, but it's not from the fear he's used to, but because of something else he can't exactly pinpoint just yet.

"Who are you?" He breathes out. His voice is quiet and cowardly, a characteristic he's been far from being for so long. He's brave now, he thinks. Well, as brave as one can get. He's not all that brave in the end, though, he can't even find the courage to take his own life no matter how badly he wants to. He's not ready, he thinks. He's still holding on to that life he once lived, the life that no longer roams this lonely planet.

There's no longer red; no longer blood that flows through veins, cheeks that tint pink, smiles that hurt and are too bright. There's darkness and there's black and there's empty, and that's what he knows now. There's nothing left.

"What's your name?" He calls out again, louder than before. He knows not to be too loud, though. He can't attract attention to his discreet hiding place. He never knows when chaos can strike; he needs to be prepared and ready to go at all times. He's always on high alert. It's tiring.

There's a short pause before there's a scratchy, "Niall. My name's Niall."

Niall's accent is heavy like a dead weight. He sounds strung out and tired, but the noise makes him want to listen even more. Makes his ears perk up at the sound of Niall's voice, and he smiles. He hasn't smiled in so long, there's been absolutely no reason to at all. There's too much dirt and darkness and death to smile anymore. And he feels like he could cry. So he does. Tears leak out from his green eyes and he doesn't care. He lets them fall freely, let's them gush out like water rushing from a floodgate. And it feels nice; it feels nice to cry, to feel like a human being for once in this grungy world of anything but.

He hasn't cried in so long that he's surprised his body is even capable of producing tears. But it's replenishing. It's fresh, and it's a wonderful contrast compared to humanity now.

"Sir, are you crying?" Niall asks him, stepping forward. He pushes his gun back until it's resting across his back and Niall puts his hands on the other boy's shoulders warily.

He sniffs, reaches a grimy hand to wipe away the snot and the tears, the specks of dirt that find a way into his green eyes. His tears continue to fall, but he's not sad. He's not happy either, he doesn't know what he is, but he feels okay.

And he cries because he never thought this day would come. Never thought he'd still be alive to witness another human being, another body, another flesh and bones and real blood swimming through veins. And it makes him feel safe, makes him feel okay now that he knows he's not the only one.

"'M sorry," he lets out through tears that only seem to get thicker the longer he sobs. In another life he'd feel like a complete idiot, a downright fool, but this isn't another world and in this world he can't care. There's more important things to worry about than embarrassing feelings. Things that are choices, and choices that come down to life and death. Which will you choose? Better yet, which will choose you?

"Sorry, I―my name is Harry. I'm sorry. Sorry."

Harry has a thing for that, for apologizing when he really doesn't need to. It's been the same since before darkness intruded and took over their world. Been the same since colors existed, since before smells weren't foul and didn't make your nose hurt every time you took a deep breath in. Since before things went down the drain, when the sun actually shined and he enjoyed it, when the skies were clear and bright and blue instead of muggy and gray and thick, when black clouds didn't taint the fucking skies. Some things never change, Harry thinks, even when the rest of the world does. Drastically.

"It's okay, Harry," Niall assures him even though Harry can tell it's far from the truth. Nothing is ever okay anymore. It never will be.

Harry's never heard someone so soft spoken before. Well, not now anyway. He's used to high pitched, blood curdling screams and throaty grunts from death itself and hissing and pain and crunching and gunshots and fallen limbs and. And Harry realizes that that's the only thing he knows now. It's sad, it's _tragic_ , a fucking violent tragedy, but there's nothing he can do about it.

"I've been walking for miles," Niall speaks. Harry notices that they're still so close to each other, closer than they should be seeing as they're strangers, but he doesn't mind the company. He's craved it for so long. "I've been walking and I haven't stopped. My feet hurt, they feel like they're on fire. My limbs ache and my fingers feel like they're stuck in place since they've been curled around that fuckin' trigger for so long, but I haven't stopped. I don't even know what day it is. I lost track of keeping up with what year it is so long ago. I could've walked around this entire earth, could've walked in a complete circle, but how would I know?

"I've pulled that trigger way too many times for me to count, I've seen too much blood and too much guts, I've seen too many things that I wouldn't even wish my worst enemy to see. I thought I was the only one; I thought I was the last breathing soul out there, but I'm not, and you know what?"

Niall stops his rant (Harry's not sure exactly why he's started or where he's going with it, but he's listening) to quirk a dirty eyebrow at Harry, and he takes that as a sign that Niall wants him to answer. "What?" He lets out a breath of air.

"You know what's fucked up? That I've been walking for so long and I've only found one person that's like me. One person that breathes like I do, that's capable of conversation, that doesn't try to feed off my fuckin' flesh, my brains, my heart like they do. _One_. There's no one left, and I'm not sure what to make of that. I don't know how to feel anymore."

And Harry's at a loss for words. He's only met Niall all but five minutes ago, he assumes, and in that five minutes he's already said so much. In a way, Harry appreciates it. He appreciates the sound of another voice, and he can't believe what he's thinking right now, but he's grateful. He's grateful and he's lucky that there's someone else who understands how he feels, someone that gets him. And they don't know each other apart from their names, but does it really matter? Does anything matter anymore?

Harry's lips part as he goes to speak, but the words never come out. There's that familiar grunting sound again, the one that's been embedded into his mind like a microchip, and there's the dragging of twisted limbs again that send them both into high alert. Harry fists the front of Niall's shirt with one hand (he's sure it used to be white but it's now a muddy brown color), the other grabbing a hold of his gun before he pulls Niall's body behind him harshly, basically throwing him onto the dusty ground beneath their feet.

He hears Niall's groan of discomfort, but there's no time to focus on it. They've already been found.

There's hunger in their eyes, black blood covering their skin, teeth bared and stained with decay and filth. Their walk is slow but eager as they drag themselves closer to the life they're programmed to consume. Harry's heart beats sporadically in his chest, so loud that he can hear the noise strong in his ears, like a ringing that won't stop. His fingers tremble and they shake, but he manages to cock his gun and shoot. He doesn't stop.

One by one they go down, like a domino effect. One to the head, one to the heart that they no longer have. One by one they fall and it doesn't even phase him anymore. This is his life now. It's how he has to live it if he's going to continue on.

Niall shuffles to his feet behind him, frantic but calm at the same time. Harry isn't sure if that's possible, if it even makes sense, but nothing makes sense anymore.

"We have to move," Niall whispers firmly. He doesn't wait for Harry to react, just pulls on his arm before he starts running out of the shed and they're on their way. They don't look back.

They run. They run and they run and they don't stop.

***

Niall looks like a blessing in this curse of a world they live in. He's bright and noticeable, like a moth to a flame, but even Harry can tell his light is a bit dimmed. He can see the bags that his blue eyes carry, the small cuts and traces of dried blood that cover his milky skin, but he's still beautiful. Harry hasn't seen beauty in such a long time that it physically hurts to look at Niall. It feels like someone is taking a hold of his heart, squeezing it until there's nothing left; feels like someone's sucking the soul out of him until he's nothing but a limp body, skin and bones, but it's liberating. It's like he's flying― _soaring_ ―through the skies. It makes him feel like the life he lives is worth living after all.

He still has his doubts, though. He doesn't think that's going to change.

Niall's eyes are electric, like a spark of lighting in the indigo of the night sky. If the world wasn't so dull and dim, he'd think he'd resemble sunshine itself. Niall reminds him of the rays he used to know, makes him think of warmth and laughter and fun and good times. But Niall is far from good times now; he's brown and he's dust and he's gunk, but he's still pretty. Niall makes it work. Harry's heart hasn't beat this fast since he faced death up close, like it was smiling right at him.

"You know, I can't tell if you're lookin' at me like that 'cause you like what you see or if you're shocked 'cause there's actually someone out there that's dirtier than you."

Harry blinks a few times, pulling himself out of his mesmerizing trance, out of his imaginations, his own dream world, when the playfulness of Niall's tone catches him off guard. He can feel the heat pooling into his cheeks, burning his skin, but he's not sure if Niall would be able to tell that he's blushing underneath all the grime and blood.

Niall wears a smirk on his face when Harry looks at him, and Harry finds himself wondering how he does it. How he can even think about showing any other emotions than fear and self hatred, but he doesn't ask. That's a private thing, a personal matter; it's not his place. Harry looks away, down to the dust that covers his boots.

"I'm just..." Harry trails off, but he doesn't know how to finish. He doesn't know a lot of things. Maybe his mind is slowly deteriorating and one day it'll be nothing but a speck of what it used to be. He's already lost most of his memory, already doesn't remember how to feel certain things or certain ways, and. And all he knows is how to suffer; how to suffer and how to hate and how to be afraid to die even though he thinks it'd be nice to do just that. To just stop breathing all together, to finally have the peace he deserves.

Would death be peaceful? Does peacefulness even exist in this malicious world of theirs? Probably not. Oh well.

"I don't mind." Niall shrugs nonchalantly. "Either way, I don't care. I think you're fairly nice to look at, and I find it fascinating that there's someone as filthy as me out there, too. I think that's what we need to do. I think we should go out and find somewhere with a shower. Showering sounds so nice. I haven't seen water in weeks, I think. I've got a few bottles of it in my pack, but I need that for hydration purposes." He snorts. "Wouldn't it be funny, though? 'Stead of gettin' eaten alive, you die from lack of water in your system. Ha."

Niall likes to talk, Harry notices. He doesn't mind, it's quite nice, but it's just weird. It's weird how distraught and tainted this world is with bad vibes and ugliness and demise, yet somehow Niall is still capable of making dark jokes. How he somehow finds the light in such a horrible, lightless, gloomy situation. It's sad, kind of, but it's beautiful and it's admirable in a bizarre way, and it's something Harry truly needs. He needs that light, he needs something other than death.

"I think so, too." Harry ends up saying. His gaze never leaves the dirt road they march on. They continue to walk, no breaks in between, until they find what they need.

***

They find an old, abandoned apartment complex. Which isn't weird to see since half the planet is abandoned and vacant anyway. They're completely surprised that everything inside pretty much still works. Just barely, but it's still something. There's electricity and there's warmth and there's unopened goods still sitting in the pantries, and it feels a little foreign (neither of them have been inside of an actual house in so long), feels like they're intruding, but there's no one else in this world for it to be a problem. It's dreadful, really, it's depressing and miserable, but it's fine. They'll be fine. For now.

The coast is clear which is a wonderful thing. They can relax, not have to worry about fighting for their lives (something that Harry's not even sure if he even wants anymore), and it feels good. Something actually feels good for a change. It's a taboo feeling now.

The flat is small; there's a narrow kitchen with a flickering light, there's a tiny living room with a few pieces of furniture and a TV that most likely stopped working when lives started dying, and there's only one bedroom, which means that there's only one bath as well. Neither of them are in any place to complain, though. This is like luxury compared to what they've seen. Harry's back to feeling grateful again. He's so thankful for this, he is.

"This is basically like our own little glimpse of heaven, Harry," Niall moans―he actually moans―as he plops himself down on the dingy sofa in the middle of the living room they're currently in. Harry watches as Niall begins to pull off his boots, then, how carelessly he throws them about.

Niall stands up afterwards, goes to unbuckle the belt looped around his waist. Harry can't pull his eyes away, it's kind of like he's stuck. Niall slips his shirt off of his torso, tossing it on the floor just like he did with his boots. Harry starts to feel hot, but he doesn't dare turn away. He continues to stare like a deer caught in headlights when Niall starts to tug his pants off his legs, and soon enough he's left in only a pair of worn out briefs and dusty set of white socks. Harry gulps, looks away quickly when Niall looks up then, and he doesn't know what he's doing but he makes his way out of the room and into the other, hearing Niall chuckling softly behind him.

He shakes his head to rid his mind of all his thoughts before he starts to rummage around the room. It's empty for the most part, apart from the bed that sits in the middle of the room, bed sheets strewn across and thrown about carelessly. There's a small closet and a dresser right next to where Harry stands, so he decides to dig through them.

It's almost as if whoever lived here before, before their world turned to shit, tried to pack up as much as they could, the first thing their hands could touch, before they left all together. Harry can picture it now, a person frantically moving around their house, not knowing what was to come but expecting the worst and preparing themselves for it. Harry wonders where they are now, where they ended up, he should say. It hurts to think about so he doesn't. He stops thinking.

There are some clothes left, and thank god there are items that he thinks he and Niall will be able to wear. He pulls out a couple pairs of pants, takes a few pairs of underwear for them to keep, too. It's kind of gross to think about, but then again it's not because the whole world is gross so it's not much different.

He goes to the closet next, finds a rack full of coats and sweaters and shirts and there's a few pairs of shoes sitting on the floor, too. There's not that much, but it's way more than he expected, way more than he thinks they need. He gathers everything he's taken in his arms before heading back to the living room.

On the way, he passes by the bathroom that Niall's currently taking a shower in, and the door has been left wide open for him to see. And he gets an eyeful. The shower curtain is clear, which is pretty weird, but it's also weirder now that Harry thinks he doesn't exactly mind. The view is nice from this side, he thinks shamelessly. He watches as Niall's fingers scrub through his scalp, as soap builds up in his hair, bubbly and foamy as Niall cleans the strands. Harry watches as Niall rinses his hair with closed eyes underneath the water, ridding himself of all the soap and bubbles he created. And just as Harry's eyes begin to trail down the length of Niall's torso, further down, Niall shuts off the water, and before Harry has time to react, he's pulling back the shower curtain and stepping out.

Niall's eyes meet Harry's wide eyes, green and frightened, humiliated now that he's been caught, and that's it before Harry rushes off with heat pooling in his cheeks and his heart going off in the center of his chest. He closes his eyes, shakes his head before running his fingers through his hair that's in dire need of a wash. Maybe a soaking, more like.

He can hear Niall coming in then, and he wishes nothing more than for the couch to swallow him up whole. He thinks that would be pretty nice. But nothing happens. He can feel the cushion dipping down beside him, but he makes no moves to look up. He's a fool, really. An idiotic fool that hasn't seen another human body in ages. He's excited, in multiple ways, but he can't do anything about it.

"Uh, I found some, um, I found some clothes in the room," Harry announces, voice trembling with embarrassment. He's so stupid, and he supposes that's another thing about him that hasn't really changed either.

He separates their outfits quickly, clumsily, and tells Niall that, "Here. I'm just going to go―" but he doesn't finish that thought before he tosses Niall his clothes, grabs his own, and heads towards the bathroom. This time he closes the door and locks it behind him, drowning out Niall's voice as it calls out his name when he finally turns the water on.

He strips out of his clothes hastily, eager to finally be able to rid himself of all the blood and the grime and the hurt and hatred that coats his skin. He steps inside of the shower, stands underneath the flowing water that cascades over his long, lean body. The water isn't hot and it's not cold but it's not warm either. He can't explain it, but it's somewhere in between and it's not bad. It's all they have anyway so they're going to have to work with it no matter what.

He scrubs the gunk off of his skin, rubs and scrapes and scratches until his body turns red, until it starts to sting, and even then he still feels dirty. Even when he spreads the soap all across his tattooed skin, even when he scrubs the shampoo through his long hair, he still feels the remnants of death and wrongness and everything that's not life and never will be on him. It's like the feeling is embedded into his skin, like crystals adorning an extravagant ball gown, and he hates it. He hates it all. It makes him feel disgusting and uneasy and it makes him feel like this is all he'll ever amount to. Like all he'll ever be is the hellish world that they live in and nothing more.

It's sad; it's disheartening and it's upsetting, bleak and daunting, and it's absolutely nothing more. It's a twisted tragedy that they'll never be able to escape. And if he wants to he'll have to die, and even if he decides he wants to live, that he wants to stay in this sick, atrocious world after all, he's going to die either way. 'Cause he'll get eaten alive, or he'll die from the dehydration Niall joked about earlier, or starvation, or from a nasty infection, or a stupid disease, or maybe he'll run into another human being and they'll be so fucked up in the head, so gone, so crazy and psychotic because of this cruel world that they'll mistake him for one of them or they'll be too scared to share this life with someone else that they'll kill him. It could happen, and either way it's not going to end well. No matter if he takes his own life or if he doesn't, it's still going to be a fucked up way to go.

He's not sure what to make of that, how to take it all in, but he doesn't care anymore. Nothing else matters.

There's a knock on the door that makes him jump a little where he stands underneath the water, but he's been scared of far worse in his lifetime. It's kind of funny when he thinks about it so he laughs. It's not a real laugh, he doesn't remember what those sound like, but it's something.

"Harry?" Niall calls out from the other side of the door. It kind of makes Harry want to laugh a bit harder, but he also wants to burst out into a fit of tears just like he had when they first met each other. Maybe he's crazy. He probably is. "Are you okay? You've been in there for a pretty long time."

Harry studies his hands, notices how wrinkled they look, like raisins in the summer sun from being underneath the water for too long. He guesses Niall is right. He turns the water off.

He grabs a towel, one that Harry assumes Niall left out for him, before he starts to quickly dry himself off without really paying attention to what he's doing exactly. His skin is still damp when he pulls on the clothing he stole, and he takes a deep breath, in and out, before he unlocks the door and pulls it open.

He's met with the captivating sight of electrifying blue eyes, so striking that it's almost impossible for him to look away. Niall stares back at him with a look of worry that makes Harry frown. He doesn't think Niall should be worried about him at all. He doesn't know Harry, and Harry doesn't know him, so he shouldn't feel whatever way he's feeling about him. It's not right. It's weird, it's foreign.

"I was just seeing if you were okay," Niall mutters softly. He hasn't heard a sound so delicate in so long. It's nice; dreamlike.

"I'm fine."

Harry realizes then that he doesn't talk much. Why should he anyway?

"Okay," Harry just nods.

Niall keeps staring at him like he's a foreign object, like he's something he's never seen before, and Harry doesn't get it. He doesn't understand why he does that. Why he seems to care so much. It hasn't even been a day yet.

"I think I should sleep now," Niall tells Harry, their eyes never leaving each other's sight. "You probably should, too."

And Niall doesn't wait for an answer before he's tugging on Harry's hand and leading them to that small bedroom. He's afraid to sleep, he hasn't had a proper rest in ages, but he listens to Niall even though he's not sure why.

That night, he sleeps better than he ever has before.

***

They haven't been found yet so they suppose everything has been going okay. It's been two and a half days since Niall and Harry found the flat they're currently hiding away in, and Harry's still not sure how he feels about everything—about life, death, about what he's still doing here, about Niall, about what's next—but for now he's fine. It's finally nice and quiet compared to the eventful days before now. Harry feels like he should cherish every moment while it lasts because he knows it's not going to. It never will. He's grown used to the fact by now.

"You know what?" Niall suddenly questions while shoveling a spoonful of diced peaches into his mouth. There's not much real food to eat so they're left with canned goods and packaged food, but it's better than starving. It's better than nothing at all.

They do this a lot, Harry notices, talk about any and everything seeing as they've not got much else to do. Niall tells Harry about his feelings, about his dreams and his aspirations that he can no longer fulfill but still has a lot of hope left in his heart for. Niall speaks about what he hates, what he loves, what he wishes. He tells Harry the truth, tells him about the ugly and the beautiful and everything else in between and it's nice. It's calming, serene in a way, knowing that he has someone to talk to, someone to rant and share his worthless feelings with. And although Harry might not say much, he listens; he remembers and he learns and he doesn't take a single thing Niall throws his way for granted. He catches it, holds it tight, and keeps it safe away so that no one else could get to it even if they tried. It's unlike anything he remembers, but it sure is nice. It's lovely. It's the best thing he's ever had at its finest.

"We live a life where life is the equivalent to death, and if that's not fucked up then I don't wanna know what is." Niall continues on. His features are straight and glum, unbothered yet tainted if you look hard enough, rough around the edges, and it makes Harry's guts wrench. Because it's the harsh reality he wishes he didn't have to face but had been given no choice but to do just that.

Because Niall is right—that's all they have left is death and it's fucked up. It's so fucked up that's it's much more than that, something Harry wouldn't even be able to to explain if he wanted to, even if he tried.

"This is our normal now," Harry mutters, staring at the dingy carpet beneath their feet.

Who would've ever thought the world would one day come to this?

"I had a life ahead of me before this, y'know?" Niall says sadly like his words are pain and they're hurting him, destroying him, from the inside out. "I didn't know what I was gonna be, but I knew I was gonna be something. Not this, that's for sure," he scoffs disgustedly. "I don't want this life; I want a life of my own, but I guess we can't always get what we want, right?"

Harry wants to tell Niall to shut up, wants to yell at him to stop, wants to cover his ears and scream _la, la, la_ like an immature child, but he can't. He won't, he knows he won't. So he doesn't. He just nods and says, "Right," and that's all he does before he goes silent and gives up. He doesn't feel like talking anymore. He doesn't feel like anything.

***

The third day is peaceful in an extremely odd way. Harry never thought he'd think that word again, never thought he'd experience serenity ever again in his lifetime, but as they say, anything is possible. There's still a tick bugging him, nagging him at the back of his mind that this will all be over soon. That the somewhat calm aura they've created without even realizing will diminish right into thin air, as if they'd imagined the entire thing. He's still awfully cautious of the world around him, completely aware and on high alert at all times. He kind of has to be anyway. To stay safe in this cruel life, you've got to be prepared.

He's on edge, though, scared that this little secluded bubble he and Niall are currently trapped in wont last for long. He's a paranoid mess at best, always hearing sounds and seeing thoughts that aren't there and hoping for the best, for everything to just be over with, but expecting the worst nonetheless.

It's scary, how twisted his life has become, but this is who he is now, this is what he'll forever be. He's a new person now, someone people from his previous life—the people he knew before blood and guts and flesh and death—wouldn't even recognize at first glance. It kind of hurts, too, knowing how much has changed, knowing how badly things have shifted. If Harry was ever given one wish, he'd wish for life to be the way that it used to be.

He'd wish for light, for happiness and peace and love. He misses being loved, misses being cared for the most.

Maybe he'd wish for Niall as well. Maybe he'd wish to meet him someday. Because Niall is a great person, he is. He's the wonder and the joy that Harry has basically forgotten about that this world needs, that it deserves. It's crazy to think about, but crazy is the norm nowadays. Crazy is all he seems to know.

The skies are dark as the night pours in, as blackness paints the ruined town around them. Nighttime is a peaceful time, but it's also the scariest. It's harder to protect yourself in the dark. It's harder to be safe. He's kind of glad he has Niall by his side now. Sometimes the dark can be a lonely thing to experience. Harry despises the night the most, he thinks.

"Death is inevitable," Niall randomly calls out. His eyes have slipped closed for a moment, and he looks calm, looks more beautiful than he ever has before. Harry's heart starts to twist in his chest. "I don't think I'm afraid for it anymore."

Harry supposes it's that time again; time for them to spill their inner thoughts, to share their most sacred and beloved beliefs like they have been doing a lot these past few days. It's pretty sad the things the two of them talk about. It's sad knowing how little each of them have left.

Harry doesn't say anything, though. His mind is at a loss for words, scrambling to find the right things to say, yet nothing seems to come out. So he nods. He makes a humming sound at the back of his throat as he turns his head resting on the pillow underneath him to glance at Niall.

He's met with impossibly bright blue eyes, and he wonders how long Niall has been staring at him. He frowns while he wonders exactly how Niall's eyes seem to sparkle and shine even at the dullest of times. It's incredible, really. Downright amazing.

"I've still got a bit of hope left in me, though." Niall speaks slowly, voice carrying throughout the room like a delicate feather floating aimlessly with the wind. "Don't think that'll ever change."

_I don't_ , Harry wants to say, but he keeps it in because he doesn't want to kill Niall's optimistic vibe. How he can be so positive at such a negative time beats Harry, but he doesn't question it. Would rather not anyway.

"Maybe," is what Harry chooses to say. "Maybe there is hope."

Deep down, though, Harry knows for a fact there's not.

There's a period when everything else is still except for the way their hearts beat steadily in the middle of their chests. They face each other in the bed that they lay in, eyes never once leaving the other's sight. Niall is a delicately beautiful person, Harry realizes even more than he previously has. He's all soft in the face but hard at the same time, and he's bravery but fearful and he's poetic in a way Harry can't describe, and well he's—he's a beautiful contrast to the world around them, that's for sure. He's a diamond in the rough, he's a burst of colors on a dark canvas, and if they stay by each other's sides long enough (which Harry sure does hope so, he does) Harry knows something could develop. What, Harry's not exactly sure yet, wonders if he ever will be, but deep in his bones he knows it's true. Feels it settling in and finding itself a home where it plans to stay for a long, long time.

Neither of them are sure how it happens, but one moment they're crawling into bed, ready to simmer down from the day and rest until the next one comes. One moment there's nothing but easy conversation flowing between the two of them, and the next Niall's tongue is down Harry's throat and Harry's arms are winding around his slim waist, and it's hasty and quick, hot and wet, and Harry's not exactly sure what's happening but he doesn't want it to stop. God, he hopes it doesn't stop.

Niall's moans are sinful and loud, and his fingers work their way into Harry's curls, twisting and tugging at the roots until Harry feels a headache coming on, but it just feels way too good, too heavenly to make Niall stop. There's a string of spit that connects their eager mouths when Harry pulls away only to attach his lips to Niall's jawline and down the base of his throat just like that of a leech until there's a trail of redness and purple bruises that paint his skin, and Harry kind of likes the look of it. He's a work of art. It makes Niall look even prettier than he already is. Harry's not sure how that's possible, but apparently it is.

Harry's hands sneak under the stolen, gray shirt Niall wears until skin touches skin. His palms are splayed across Niall's hipbones, going to grip the area and squeezing tight before he brings his hands up and starts to pull Niall's shirt off of his body. Niall obliges without hesitation, undoes the strings on Harry's sweatpants like his mind was programmed to do just that.

It's rough and it's needy and it's desperate and it kind of hurts and it's quick, but it feels good. Harry hasn't touched another person in so long, hasn't been touched in a while, either, so he's eager and he's impatient and he's going to take all that he can get. And there's so much spit and there's too much tongue and too much teeth, but it's hot and it's scandalous and it's amazing. It's like he's buzzing, like he's high off of the excitement and the ecstasy and the need that he desires. He wants that fire, craves that pleasure and intimacy he's gone so long without.

Harry doesn't realize he's holding in his breath until Niall gets a hand around his dick, gently tugging him, and Harry lets out a harsh sigh, a puff of relief that has his eyes rolling to the back of his head and his teeth sinking into his lower lip. Harry knows he probably won't last long since it's been a while since the last time he's gotten off, but right now he doesn't care. He can't care because he can't think. Can't focus on anything else but the way Niall's thumb digs into his tip, the way he spreads the pre cum around, coating his skin and making it easier for his fingers to glide across.

If this were another life, Harry wonders if he would've ever gotten the pleasure to meet Niall. If he would've ever gotten to witness his beautiful face and his simple yet so, _so_ effective smile outside of the gloomy world they live in now. Harry thinks it would be nice, thinks that if they'd have met in another life meeting Niall would be ten times as better as it is now, would've taken him off guard but in an entirely different way. He wonders what Niall's eyes look like underneath the sun he hasn't seen in so long, how bright his hair would be, what color would his lips be instead, how much more beautiful would Niall be. It's something he'd like to know, craves to know, but sadly will never find out. Maybe in another lifetime, he supposes. If it's meant to be, maybe they'll find each other again.

And while the thought his fresh on his mind and Niall's lips are nibbling at his throat, he comes without a second thought, spills his load all over Niall's calloused fingers, and it's the best he's had in the longest time. Better than anything he's ever had the pleasure of feeling before.

He falls asleep a bit after with his lips lazily attached to the blond boy's at his side while he dreams of that maybe they'd been wondering about earlier. And at the back of his eyelids paints a picture of the life he wishes he could live and he thinks it feels nice. In his dreams, hope sure does seem nice.

***

He's woken up feistily by a loud gunshot. There's a loud noise that rings through his ears, followed by a harsh, "Harry, c'mon, we have to go!" as Niall shakes his shoulder to get him to wake up. It doesn't even take a second for his eyes to fly open and for him to spring out of bed. Thank god he decided it'd be a good idea to sleep with his shoes on. He grabs his own weapon, pulls his pack across his back, and he takes the hand Niall extends out to him, and they run.

It's been a few days, Harry assumes, since he and Niall have been locked up in this place, and it was nice while it lasted. It was wonderful, but now here comes the chaos and the black blood and the grunting and the fear and rapidly beating hearts again and he should've known. Nothing good ever lasts. Especially nowadays. It's not fair.

They seem to move faster at the sight of the living; Harry clutches Niall's hand tightly, so tight that he's afraid he might cut off his circulation, but the feeling is ripped away when Niall pulls his hand out of Harry's own. His fingers clutch the gun planted in his hands and Harry watches as the thing fires. There's black blood splattered on the walls, coloring the area with a reminder of the death that the world has been consumed by.

There's a knife clenched tight in each of Harry's hands, and he wastes no time stabbing through decayed flesh, through bloody heads and decrepit hearts. The gory sound of sharpness piercing through decomposed skin would put Harry off, would make him sick to his stomach if this was another life, but it isn't and he should really stop thinking that way. Should stop before he lets go of the sliver of hope he barely even had all together.

Hope is kind of like the world around them anyway: dead.

"We have to go!" Niall shouts, quickly looking back to meet Harry's frantic gaze. "We have to go, now!" Harry's heart beats sporadically in his chest, beats so fast he's honestly convinced it'll give out all together soon. But he knows they can't stay longer because once a few of them are spotted there's usually more, and it all goes downhill from there.

So they run. They run and run until they're out in the open again for the first time in some days and they don't look back. Because if they did, there'd be no getting out.

***

"I'm sorry," Niall breathes heavily, like he can't catch a single breath. He's heaving at this point, finding it hard to take in fresh air, and Harry has absolutely no clue what to do. He's never been good at these kind of things before. "I'm sorry, Harry, I—"

Harry thinks Niall's panicking, he's on the verge of having an attack, a nervous breakdown, and it's harder to witness than Harry thought it'd be. He's not exactly sure what that means.

He walks closer to the blue eyed boy, then, steps carefully and his hunky boots scrape across the dirt beneath their toes. "It's okay," he mutters softly, calmly to keep Niall on edge. He gets his hands on Niall's reddened cheeks, pushes them together gently so that Niall's cheeks bunch up in order to get him to look into his eyes. "It's okay," he repeats steadily. "Whatever it is, it's okay."

Is it, though? Is anything really okay in this life?

"I-I—I just went out for a couple o'minutes and they—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—we could've—" Harry has never seen Niall this way. And yeah, it's not been that many days, but Harry's starting to think that maybe they're both losing their minds. Maybe that's how the world gets you if _they_ don't get to you first.

"It's not your fault," Harry whispers. Thinks about resting his forehead against Niall's own but ultimately decides against it. He rubs his thumbs across his delicate skin instead. "They would've gotten to us sooner or later, they always do."

Niall's eyes are impossibly wide, so blue that it's almost as if Harry is hypnotized. It's as if he's stuck under Niall's spell and unable to get out from under, but he doesn't mind. Niall's a piece of tranquility in this fucked up world of theirs. Even when he's having a moment of his own, he's a slice of heaven.

"But we were safe," Niall protests, frowns and heaves and his eyes water at the sides. "We were safe, and we—"

"And it's not your fault," Harry interrupts. He sends Niall a look, one he hopes is as strong as he meant it to be, and he says, "it's not your fault."

It's no one's fault but _theirs_.

***

When darkness falls again, Harry is on high alert. Niall rests his head against Harry's shoulder as the both of the hide out behind a couple of wild bushes for the night. How Niall sleeps so peacefully is unknown to Harry, and even though his eyes burn with the need to fall asleep, he knows he can't. So he won't. His eyes sting and he's finding it hard to keep them open, but he's got to be on the lookout just in case. In this world, sleep is for the weak. Sleep is something not a lot of people can afford.

So he watches Niall to keep himself busy, takes in the way his chest gently rises and falls, how his lips are just barely parted. His snores are quiet and soft, just like Niall can be, and it's a sight to see, really. Harry doesn't realize he's brought a hand up to caress the side of Niall's face until his fingers begin to glide over Niall's fragile skin, and it's nice.

There's specks of dirt on the surface of Niall's skin, splatters of black blood mixed in with sweat, but Harry doesn't mind. The grittiness makes Niall a part of who he is now, makes them what they are. He curves his fingers around the edge of Niall's jaw, runs them through his blond strands, scratches at his scalp, and the little sigh of content that Niall unknowingly releases from between pink lips puts Harry on edge. But in the best way possible. In a way he won't explain. It's too much.

Niall curls himself further into Harry's body, fits into the mold Harry never knew was there until now. He fits in perfectly like the last piece to a puzzle, and he makes Harry's head spin and his heart soar without even realizing it.

It's only been a few days but Niall's already set Harry's heart on fire. Maybe he enjoys the feeling. He places a kiss upon Niall's forehead, lets his lips linger a bit to savor the glorious moment. There couldn't be anything else better than this.

***

He wakes up to the sun's way too bright rays hitting his face. When his eyes finally open, he rubs at them harshly, rubs at them to wipe away that last bit of sleep that's been leftover. His arms and legs spread out as he quickly stretches, cracks his back to let out any kinks his joints may have. There's a muffled yawn that comes out of his mouth and when he rolls over to finally get up after lying on an uncomfortable ground for far too long, he notices he's alone. Niall is no longer by his side like he previously was, and if that doesn't send Harry into a frenzy he's not sure what would.

He panics, jumps right up and onto his feet without a second thought. He whips his head around in search of a head full of blond hair but comes up short. Niall is nowhere to be found.

He feels like he can't breathe all of a sudden, like someone's stolen all of the air around him and his lungs have finally given out. He wants to shout, wants to scream and yell, but he knows he can't for fear that they'll find him.

He's clumsy as he rushes around, looks behind trees and bushes, feels like a proper madman, but can't seem to find the will to care at all. Not one bit. Because if they've—oh God, if they've taken him, Harry's not sure how he'll react. He's not sure how he'll be able to go on now that he's gotten to opportunity to have Niall in his life.

It hurts. It hurts worse than any cut or gash to the leg or kick or punch he's ever felt before. It hurts more than he'd ever allow.

He starts to feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes now. His vision is blurred and he can't see straight as he rushes around. His lungs are caving in and his chest feels tight, and is this what dying feels like? Is this what it feels like when death finally consumes your life, or is it a far greater pain than this will ever be? Harry's not really sure if he wants to know.

He starts to feel woozy, feels sick to his stomach all of a sudden. But when he hears the crunching sound of heavy boots colliding with the dried out leaves they stand upon, it's like a surge of fresh air had been put into his body, it starts to feel like he may be able to breathe correctly once again.

"Harry?" He hears Niall's familiar voice calling out to him. "Harry, are you okay?" He wastes no time after that, spinning around until they're face to face. He dives forward without so much as a second thought, wraps his long arms around Niall's slim shoulders and he pulls him in, holds him tight, and never lets go.

He sobs into Niall's neck, holds him closer, kisses his skin, does whatever he can possibly do at the moment. His breaths are heavy and shaky, but he knows he's okay when he feels Niall holding onto him just as tight.

"Shh," Niall whispers, smoothing a dirty hand against Harry's long tendrils. "S'okay, Harry. It's okay."

Harry sniffles loud and clear. He tries to focus on steadying his breathing but it's kind of hard to do so when his mind is so cluttered with the thought of Niall. He's a mess, a huge, pathetic mess, but it's okay. If Niall says so, everything must be just fine.

"I thought—I thought they got you. I thought you were—" he doesn't bother finishing the sentence. It hurts to even think about saying.

" _Fuck_ ," Niall curses harshly under his breath. He gets his hands on Harry's shoulders, then, and pulls him away until blue eyes meet green once again. "I didn't mean to go far, I was just—I didn't mean to take so long. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

Maybe that's one thing they have in common, not thinking, because Harry doesn't put any thought into his actions before he surges forward and connects his lips with Niall's very own. It's rough and its needy, and their lips a bit chapped and dry, but it's the nicest Harry's felt in a long time. Their tongues tie and their lips lock, and it's wet and hot and messy but that's all the two of them ever seem to be anyway.

Niall grips at Harry's curls tightly and Harry slips his arms around Niall's slender waist, and it's perfect. Perfectly imperfect.

"I found a shed," Niall breathes heavily against Harry's slick mouth. "I found a shed close by."

Harry pulls back, then. He studies Niall's face and he nods. "Okay," his voice is kind of hoarse, raspy and hard. "Okay, we should go."

Harry follows close behind Niall as they make their way to the shed Niall says he discovered. Their guns are gripped tightly in their hands just to be prepared.

It's not a far walk, it doesn't seem, and sooner than they both know they've arrived. The outside of the shed is a dark, brick red color. It's small and a bit old and rustic, but it's a shed and that's all that really matters most.

"I'm not sure what's inside," Niall whiskers just as they carefully approach the door. Harry feels that bundle of nerves pooling deep in the pit of his stomach just like it does when he feels that something bad is about to happen. He's not got a good feeling about this.

He nibbles on his lower lip worriedly, unsure of what to do next. "Maybe we should keep going," he suggests warily. "We could keep going, Niall."

"There could be something in there we could use, Harry." Niall insists with furrowed eyebrows. His blue eyes are persistent and full of hope, and that's what pulls Harry in, really. It's what makes him forget about all of his unsureness, all of his doubts, and keeps him going.

"O-okay," his voice wavers as he nods. "Alright."

Both Niall and Harry are cautious, on high alert, as they scan the outskirts of the shack, trying to examine the area around them before they go in. Their guns are cocked, ready and loaded, knives tucked in between their belt buckles for extra protection just in case it's needed. It's better safe than sorry in a world like this, better to be prepared for the utmost worst than to not be at all. It's the way things have to be nowadays; it's what you have to do to survive.

Does Harry even want to survive? He's still not too sure about that question yet? And it's not that he doesn't _want_ it necessarily, but if life just so happened to be ripped away from him with no warning thrown his way at all, well then, maybe he wouldn't exactly mind. It's sad, really, that this is all he'll ever amount to now, all the world will ever be. But there's nothing that can be done anymore at this point. The world's a lost cause—Harry doesn't think it'll ever go back to being the way that it was before it turned into a mess.

Closer and closer they get to the door that divides them from whatever inside the shed and the outside world around them. Niall's blue gaze meets a nervous green, quirking an eyebrow Harry's way as if silently asking him if he's ready to go on. Harry supposes he'll have to be. He's not got much of a choice left.

Harry nods stiffly, just barely, but it's enough that Niall notices the movement. He nods back just as stern, puckering his chapped lips just a bit before he starts mouthing a countdown. _Three, two, one_ , his lips move; Harry's heart cannot be tamed in the middle of his chest. Niall must catch onto the way Harry's nerves start to consume him for whatever reason that may be (he's not even sure why he feels this way all of a sudden himself, he just has a bad feeling settling angrily in the pit of his stomach, has a bad, sour taste in his mouth that he just can't get rid of now), so he leads the way, walks slowly and hesitantly towards the shed's door with Harry tip toeing right behind.

There's a lock hanging on the handle of the door that Harry takes as a good sign, sees as a sign that they should turn back around and start moving on to another place, but the feeling dies down when Niall reaches out a curious hand, wraps his gritty fingers around the piece of metal, takes a risk and pulls on the lock to check if it's really locked or not. It isn't, much to Harry's disappointment. The lock unhooks, just like that, almost as if whoever was here last forgot to lock it back up again. Harry takes in a deep breath once Niall starts to creep a bit closer, feels like all of the air he's been breathing in is caught in the center of his throat and it won't come out.

He holds it in. Niall removes the lock, slowly pushing the door open.

It creaks a bit, an obnoxious noise that Harry can't stand the sound of. It's way too obvious for his liking; that noise alone could blow their cover, could have the two of them caught within minutes if enough of them are close by.

The coast is clear for now. Niall nods his head, gesturing for Harry to follow him inside. And well, Harry's so completely under whatever spell Niall has casted on him already that he doesn't even hesitate to get his feet dragging and following the invisible trail that Niall leaves behind the further he makes his way into the shed.

It's dark inside, a few streaks of light pouring into the enclosed area here and there, but it's not decent enough to actually illuminate the room enough for them so see clearly. Harry watches with steady eyes that never stray as Niall reaches into his pocket, pulling out a lighter and flicking his thumb a few times across the spark wheel to get it to light up.

"Niall," Harry whispers as soft and low as he can possibly manage. "It's dark, we can't see a thing. I think we should leave."

And Harry hopes and prays to a God he's not even sure if he believes in anymore that Niall takes his word for it, that Niall listens to what Harry's saying and they both turn back around before anything happens. Because Harry's still got that feeling, that unsettling feeling that's still bothering him deep down to his core, and—and it's not worth it. They should just leave; they should leave before anything happens that they might possibly end up regretting.

"Yeah," Niall nods, shivering like a draft has just passed by. "Yeah, you're right. Let's go."

The minute Harry starts to turn around is the exact moment he hears it, that familiar sound that he's gotten so used to by now, that he can't ever seem to get out of his mind anymore now that it's embedded into each and every crack and crevice in his brain like it was meant to be there all along. His stomach drops instantly, fingers curling around the trigger of the firearm that might as well be permanently attached to his palms with no hesitation at all. He doesn't even have to think about it anymore, it's nothing but an instant reflex for him at this point.

It's too late, though. The hisses and the throaty grunts and the dragging of wilting and fractured limbs are too close at this point to do anything about it. It's too late.

It's too late when Niall shouts for Harry to look out, to "Get out of the way, Harry! Move!" It's too late when black, bloodstained flesh comes in contact with his own, when gory, rotten teeth pierce muddy, human skin. Niall moves fast, like a flash of lightning in the middle of a pitch black midnight sky, but he isn't fast enough to stop them from sinking into Harry's muscles, from letting their infection taint and contaminate his pure, unharmed soul. 

Niall's breaths are heavy, mind hazy and clouded with panic that washes over him like a flood he can't escape, but he doesn't give up. He pulls Harry's body towards his own, rips him away from the death they've been trying so hard to avoid, and well, he was right wasn't he? He was right—death really is inevitable, isn't it? It doesn't discriminate against anyone, no one at all, and it fucking sucks. But Niall tries to keep his composure, has to for Harry's sake, for himself, but mostly for him, for Harry, because as of now, Niall is no longer what's important. From this moment on, Harry's the only constant in this bullshit place they call a world. He's the only thing that matters right now, and Niall's on a mission to keep him safe before it's too late.

He knows it is, though. Too late, that is. It's been too late since the moment he found this place, but he doesn't want to admit it to himself yet. He isn't ready. He's already fucked up enough as it is.

And Niall shoots like he's never shot before. He aims his weapon and fires away, not even bothering to make plausible targets. He's so full of hate and rage and anger that he doesn't even care. And his eyes sting with thick, unshed tears that are threatening to spill over the edge at any given moment now, and his heart's on fire, and his throat burns like it's been set ablaze too, and he can't think straight, but he tries his best. He goes on and he fights and he does everything he possibly can, and it's all for Harry. Everything is for Harry.

And he runs when the last one of them is down, runs with his arms wrapped tightly around Harry's limp body, Harry's arms falling flaccid across Niall's shoulders, but he's still breathing and that's enough for Niall to want to carry on. He runs and runs as best as he can, drags himself and Harry along, and he doesn't look back.

This feels like the beginning of the end.

***

"You're okay, Harry," Niall tries to convince himself over and over again as he stares down at Harry's body, cold and whimpering and weak, the complete opposite than he was just a few hours before it all went down. His eyes haven't cleared up ever since then, are still heavy and foggy with tears he has yet to wail. They're there alright, but Niall refuses let them fall, refuses to acknowledge the current situation at hand as much as he possibly can. It just—it hurts too fucking much to think about, to see Harry in such a vile, horrid and disgraceful way.

His skin is pale, sickeningly pasty and drenched with sweat even though his temperature is freezing, way too cool for it to be considered even remotely healthy. He looks like death, in all honesty, and Niall knows that from here it only gets worse; from here, it only goes downhill.

"You're okay, Harry," he continues to chant like its a mantra he needs to repeat in order to survive. He's in denial, the worst kind there is. "You're okay, yeah? You're gonna be okay, everything's gonna be okay."

He starts to choke up a bit when Harry smiles, a weak little grin that is barely noticeable, but Niall seems to see it all. How he could even think about smiling at a time like this hurts Niall straight down to the core, but any type of effort Harry attempts to make is better than none at all. Harry lifts a hand, so pale in color that it looks a bit gray, frail and feeble, and he reaches forward to place his palm against Niall's cheek, warm with the life that's draining from Harry's body piece by piece, slowly but surely.

It feels like a dagger to Niall's heart. He squeezes Harry's hand, silently promises him that he'll never let go. He hopes the look in his captivatingly blue eyes is strong enough that Harry gets the message loud and clear.

"Stay with me?" Harry chokes out, voice small and fragile. The knife in Niall's chest surges deeper. "Please?"

Of course he'll stay—Niall doesn't think he'd have the heart or the mind to think otherwise. "I'm not going anywhere, pet," Niall whispers. The words feels like acid burning holes onto the surface of his tongue. He swallows deeply; the pain hurts even worse than before. "I'm staying right here."

_Forever_ , he wishes, hopes and dreams for, but forever is a myth spinning in the world's web full of lies.

***

"It's spreading," Harry mumbles defenselessly. His body is so drained at this point, the strength that he once obtained now gone, never to be found again. And he's right, Niall knows it, but he doesn't want to believe a word Harry says. He's still stubborn about what's going on, still refuses to accept the fact that it really is too late now. And it's pretty obvious now, isn't it? They've been stuck lying in the same spot for days, with Harry unable to move, unable to go on like the man he was when he and Niall first came in contact with each other. The infection has spread over the past few days; it started as a single bite right at the surface of his forearm, as nothing but a small, crimson colored mark that has since then crept it's way all over Harry's body, a wave of the color black and blue, battered and discolored like he's been physically harmed, all over his arms and chest and legs, and now it's making its way up Harry's neck, traveling across the span on his throat with such purpose, and Niall realizes that the time is soon. And it's weird, it's bizarre to think about because it hasn't been long since then, hasn't been much time that's passed since that first day, but it feels like years. Feels like Harry and Niall have been in each other's lives for ages and their journey is finally just now coming to an end. It's crazy to think about how attached the two have become to one another so quick like it was nothing at all, but this hellish world they live in is crazy, it's torn and demented, so does it really even matter? No, it doesn't. Nothing does anymore. This is the only life they'll ever know from here on out. Niall starts to wonder what it'd be like if things had been different.

"'S nothing personal, y'know."

And although Niall is aware of what Harry means, he still refuses to think about it, refuses to let it settle in because he can't and—and he just won't.

This is all his fault though, isn't it? They could've—what they have could've lasted just a few more days, a couple of weeks even if they were lucky, if Niall hadn't insisted going into that damn shed. If Niall wouldn't have left that morning, if he would've just stayed right by Harry's side, if he wouldn't have wandered off in search of whatever, scaring and worrying Harry half to death when he did, none of this would be happening right now. Harry wouldn't be dying, Niall wouldn't be in such a harsh state of denial and rejection, and everything would be okay. Well, as okay as okay can get these days. Is anything ever okay at this point? Niall supposed he'll never get to find out.

"I know, baby," Niall just barely manages to say, tries to push all of his self-accusatory thoughts away. Tears start to prickle at the corner of his icy, blue eyes, ice starts to form around his aching, aching heart. Harry's glad he gets to witness such beauty one last time before his time is up.

Niall sweeps his thumb across Harry's sweaty forehead, coated in the dust particles that float around them. His fingers caress Harry's face, trace the skin on his bottom lip, and Niall's never hurt more than he does now. It's a pain that screams out like a voice at the top of the highest mountain, that demands to be felt and forces itself to be intertwined with the numbness of Niall's wilting soul. "I know."

"I could've loved you," Harry says with a heart full of hurt and tears brimming, close to pouring over the edge. There's a sharp pang that teases Niall's heart, that tickles and eats away at his soul, so painstakingly slow. He wishes time were different, wishes the world had the chance to change before things could end this way. "I could've loved you if I had the time."

Harry never thought he'd experience what love felt like. He still doesn't know the feeling, but when he looks into Niall's eyes—wet with the tears he's been holding back for so long, giving in at last, and has started to shed by now—glistening with sadness and heartbreak but still oh so beautiful, he thinks he would've found out soon enough. He knows, can feel it deep down inside, that he would've grown to love Niall with all of his might, with his entire fucked up being. His heart scorches in the middle of his chest and there's a fire raging throughout his body, burning each and every thing in sight. And he feels it, but it's too late. Everything is far too late.

"It's nothing personal," Harry croaks out again like it hurts to speak. His voice is nearly gone, and the way he looks now—how limp his body is, shivering, black and bruised, the paleness in his face, the blue tint of his chapped lips—is worse than any pain Niall's ever felt in his entire life. It physically hurts to look at him this way. Niall isn't sure how he's meant to go on from here.

The blackness makes it's way to Harry's face before they both know it, without a single warning, without a last chance to say goodbye. His eyes start to slip closed as death steals away the last bit of innocence, the very last bit of existence left in his withering body and devours the rest of it all.

With shaky fingers and one last glimpse full with the heaviness he calls his tears, Niall points his gun to the side of Harry's head. His breathing is irregular, a salty, bittersweet taste forming in his mouth that doesn't seem like it will go away anytime soon. It doesn't matter, though. He's got nothing left, anyway. And the minute Harry's eyes fly open again, now dark and red and bloodshot around the irises that were once vibrant and green, that Niall once grew to admire, he pulls the trigger. Maybe there's a happily ever after they thought would never exist after all. They almost had it, too.

_Forever_ , he wishes for one last time.

He pulls the trigger once again, heart sitting heavy in the middle of his chest, his breathing harsh and loud while he sobs like he's never cried before.

His body falls to the floor.


End file.
